


(you're a) far cry from an empire at peace

by Yellow



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Arranged Marriage AU, M/M, not SUPER au but they Learn To Love (tm), plenty of wolf nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 06:56:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11962095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yellow/pseuds/Yellow
Summary: Samot and Samothes get married to preserve their kingdoms. They spend a year growing together.





	(you're a) far cry from an empire at peace

**Author's Note:**

> happy happy birthday to linda imperialhare! you're the sweetest; i hope you have a good day!
> 
> thanks to danny, dora, and linda themself for ideas from the arranged marriage twitter thread and the "what should samothes fight" thread. 
> 
> title from jukebox the ghost's best song, "empire"

“It’s only a year,” Samol says.

Samot paces, irate.

“A year lost to a farce,” he spits, and turns on his heel.

“Enough time for your people to begin to accept you as co-rulers,” Samol says. “I know you bear Samothes no particular ill will, and he bears you none, but his people are absorbing yours.”

“A problem easily solved,” Samot says. “He stops them from expanding further into my lands.”

The universities and villages of the East have prospered quietly under Samot’s rule for centuries as Samothes’s people, with their giant, industrial cities, had spread steadily east, destroying what they did not understand.

Samot’s people were proud and lured to the cities by the opportunities they held in turn. Some did not come home, and Samothes and his people marched ever-eastward, slowly swallowing the forests and turning the universities to trading halls.

“It will come to war one day,” Samol says, “your people who have left to the cities against their parents in the schools. And then where will you be.”

Samot grits his teeth. “Me being his plaything will not change the hearts of his people.”

Samol looks at him, even. “You will not be his plaything. You'll be each other’s king.”

Samol puts his hand on Samot’s shoulder. “You can pass laws to protect the universities or show the people their worth. His people have no loyalty to you, now, but they would, if you loved him as they do.”

Samot bristles.

“If you _pretended_ to love him as they do,” Samol says. “I am trying to help you, boy.”

Samot swallows and feels as if he is teetering at the edge of a cliff. In many ways, he is, and the long path of history winds below him.

“I'll do it.”

Samol quirks the corner of his mouth up.

“You'll live with him a year.”

“A year!”

“Things will go smoother if the people believe this is a love match, a joining of wills. A year should be enough to plant the seed, and then you can make your excuses and travel more freely.”

Samot feels his agreement around him like a chain but he bites his lip, hard enough to draw blood, and spits, “Fine.”

 

The wedding ceremony is brief and awkward. Samot wears his furs and Samothes stares. Samot wonders if he is unused to Samot’s people’s customs. Samothes wears an ornate gown, hand-embroidered. He tips the wine to Samot’s lips and Samot drinks, a bead escaping and running down his chin. Samothes wipes it away with his thumb, staining his skin red. Samot raises the glass to Samothes’s mouth and he grimaces as he swallows the bitter wine. Samot grins, lips purple with wine. What makes wine good is the bitterness and the sweetness, all mixed together. It seems Samothes does not yet know that.

Samothes sets off immediately for the home Samol has gifted them. Samot lingers, only goes after nightfall, picking through the woods as a wolf.

 

He arrives in four days’ time, well after Samothes would have. Samot enters the house and walks the corridors. He sees no sign of Samothes, and that makes the hairs on his neck stand up; he knows he is here and he does not like being unaware of threats.

It is nearing noon, the sun high over the trees, and Samot wanders the house until he hears a hammering coming from the backyard. He finds a small workshop.

The Artificer Divine at work. He turns away and re-enters the house.

 

Samot doesn't see Samothes until that evening. He runs into him in the hall after wandering around the house, aimless.

“Hello,” Samothes says.

“Hello,” Samot answers, and turns away.

“Do you like the house?” Samothes calls.

“I'm only living here a year. It will suffice,” Samot says. He turns back to look at Samothes. He's nothing if not curious, and he wonders if Samothes is here under duress as well. He had less to gain by the marriage.

“And you?” Samot asks.

“I helped build it,” Samothes says, simply.

“You participated in this?” Samot takes a step forward, bristling immediately. “Did you want this marriage?”

“Not particularly,” Samothes says, holding his ground. He looks down at Samot. “But I protect my people, and this was what was necessary.”

What does that even mean? Samot thinks. His lip curls up.

“The way I _protect my people_ is by being there with them, by spreading knowledge, not by hiding in the woods playing house.”

Samothes watches him.

“The way I protect my people,” he says, “is by giving them only the knowledge they need.”

“I did not want this marriage,” Samot snarls. “Do not forget it, _husband_.”

He turns on his heel and runs out of the house. The minute his feet touch the ground he’s a wolf. He runs deep into the woods, howls, loud enough that Samothes should be able to hear, back in the horrible little cottage.

He still can’t shake the feeling of being chained.

 

Samot returns eventually. He kills a rabbit and eats that, relishing the feel and taste of blood on his muzzle, the horrified look on Samothes’s face if he knew what Samot had eaten for dinner.

Then he lopes towards the house in the woods and becomes a man again. He wipes his mouth and walks inside.

When he finds the bedroom, Samothes is already in the only bed, asleep. Samot had not expected to find another bed in the house, but he’s still grimly disappointed. He changes into a loose shift and crawls into the bed. Samothes doesn’t even stir. Samot rolls his eyes. He wonders if Samothes knows what Samot is, if he’s heard the rumors. If he believes them.

Samot falls asleep fantasizing about what ripping out Samothes’s throat would taste like.

 

They settle into a routine, there. Samothes disappears during the day, the only sign of his presence an omnipresent hammering coming from the shed out back. Samot ignores it and organizes his books. He grudgingly admits the bookshelves are beautiful, wide and tall and made of good, dark wood. He still takes his meals in the woods and slips into the bed beside Samothes once the other man is asleep.

 

After a week of this, Samothes corners him in the library. He’s finally settled in and is reading at his desk when he looks up to see Samothes leaning in the doorway. He’s not wearing a shirt and his chest glistens with sweat. Samot is not one to deny himself simple pleasures, so he looks, for only a moment, then says, flat, “May I help you?”

Samothes’s face is tinged red.

“I thought we could eat together tonight.”

“Why?”

“We’re living here together for the next year. It might make it more pleasant to know each other.”

Samot looks at him, blank. “I’m quite happy with our current arrangement.”

“Samol is coming for dinner.”

“You did not,” Samot hisses, and Samothes smiles, with a tinge of relief. He’s won.

“Dinner is at six.”

He walks out of the library. Samot is so angry he loses the afternoon to fuming.

 

Samol appears that night, while Samot is still in the library. He hears his voice echoing down the hall and feels a rush of fondness for his father, despite himself.

He walks down the hall, sullen, and ignores Samothes. He hugs Samol and feels better immediately.

“You little fool,” Samot says, fond. “Samothes isn’t as bad as all this.”

Samot grumbles and draws away.

He hears Samol wrestling the pans out of Samothes’s hands in the kitchen and then Samothes enters the dining room, dazed look on his face.

Samot laughs for the first time since he arrived here.

“He always does that,” Samot says.

“Yes, but every time I figure he’ll listen to reason.”

They don’t speak again until Samol brings out the food but the silence is warmer than it has been.

Samothes and Samol chat freely over dinner and Samot eats quietly.

When Samol leaves for the night, he hugs Samot again.

“Give him a chance,” Samol says. “I think you two might be good friends, at least.”

And then he’s gone, and Samot is alone in the house with Samothes. He goes into his library and reads until he knows Samothes will be asleep.

They go on like that. Samol comes for dinner once a week and Samot craves it. He misses the company of his scholars. He barely speaks to Samothes.

But then Samol travels far away- “just for a few weeks”- and Samot is lonely enough that he sits down to dinner with Samothes.

Samothes jumps.

Samot sits, prim, and helps himself to the chicken Samothes roasted.

“Hello,” Samothes says. Samot raises an eyebrow.

Samothes takes a minute, struggles for words. Samot eats.

“Why are you here?”

“Would you not like me to be?”

“No,” Samothes says, tongue tripping over his words. “No, it's just. Unusual to see you.”

“We're going to be living here for the rest of the year. I may as well speak to you.”

Samothes looks flustered. Samot remains impassive but thrills. Perhaps he should talk to him more often.

“Of course,” Samothes says.

 

They eat like that every night. Samothes quietly cooks enough for two and Samot joins him. Many nights the conversation is stilted and awkward, but with time comes familiarity. When Samol returns he seems surprised at the way Samot and Samothes joke around the edges of the conversation.

“You boys have finally become friends,” Samol says, grinning, and Samot sips his wine, watches Samothes blush.

It's nice to have a family.

 

One night, Samot arrives to dinner and Samothes is poring over tiny scraps of paper, covered in chicken scratch.

Samot peers over his shoulder and then snatches a scrap out of his hand.

“This is how you keep notes?” He asks, incredulous.

“It works well enough for me,” Samothes says, “and I'm the only one reading them.”

Samot suppresses an eye roll and says, “well enough does not mean good.”

Samothes looks up at him.

“Let me organize this,” Samot says, already planning. “I can make you a library.”

Samothes looks down at his notes.

“Knowledge in the wrong hands is dangerous,” he says.

“How are you going to help your people if you can't even find your own blueprints?” Samot asks, and Samothes sighs.

“Tomorrow, then.”

Samot hands him back the scrap of paper. Their fingers brush. Samothes is always warm, enough so that Samot, always cold, sleeps easily and comfortably in their bed.

“Tomorrow.”

 

Samot starts drafting laws protecting the schools his people build. Samothes says nothing and watches as Samot overturns the legal system. He leaves spaces for the markets and carves out spaces for new schools. The seasons turn and they eat their dinners and Samot organizes Samothes’s blueprints. Samothes tells Samot how his cities work, the details of reconfiguration.

One particular day in the fall, when the air is crisp like the falling leaves, Samot asks to learn to blacksmith.

Samothes laughs and takes him to the forge. He shows Samot his hammers, his tongs. He tells him how to tell when the metal is hot enough to work. Then he heats a piece of metal and shows Samot how to strike it.

“Your turn,” he says, and he rests his hand on Samot’s, helping him heat the metal. They pull the piece out together and Samot hammers it into a misshapen horseshoe, heating and striking and heating and striking. Samothes watches, proud, even though Samot can tell this horseshoe will never be used.

There’s something almost hypnotic about the work, and Samot watches Samothes watch him work through the flying sparks.

The horseshoe is too wide when it cools, but Samothes still picks it up and examines it.

“Not bad for a first effort,” he says, and there’s a moment when they’re both holding the horseshoe, sweating in the heat of the forge, looking at each other.

Samot thinks, oh.

He takes dinner alone that night and goes to bed before Samothes.

 

Samot wakes often in the night, having dreamed of the gnawing, tearing feeling of being a thing existing in the face of Nothing. He usually lies in the bed and listens to Samothes breathe until he's calm again but tonight Samot wants to climb out of his own skin. He thinks about running in the woods but a larger part of him wants to be reminded he is a person, now.

“Are you okay?” Samothes asks, blearily, from the other side of the bed.

Samot realizes he's almost hyperventilating. He takes a moment to control his breathing and Samothes puts a hand on his wrist. For a moment Samot wants to rip his hand off but the contact is grounding. Samothes’s thumb rubs in circles on his wrist and Samot breathes in time with the motions.

“Thank you,” Samot says, finally. Samothes takes another moment before removing his hand.

“Of course,” he says, low and intense in the dark.

Samot says nothing, so Samothes rolls over again.

“Goodnight, Samot.”

Samot closes his eyes. Sleep finds him quickly.

 

It’s a surprisingly pleasant life. Samot finds himself looking for Samothes’s opinion; he finds his gaze lingering on Samothes’s chest. The year vanishes as fast as the wine in the wine cellar. And, then.

Samol tells them he’s dying at Sun Day dinner. Samothes puts down his fork and starts crying, silent, and Samot immediately jumps in, questioning. Samol deflects until he finally says, “I don’t want a cure, son. I want to spend time with my family before I’m gone.”

He gets up, excuses himself, and leaves. Samot follows him to the door. Samothes sits at the table, struck.

“Don’t do anything foolish, boy,” he tells Samot, and Samot hugs him, says nothing. Then Samol is gone, and Samot is left with a silent Samothes.

It’s unnerving. Samot has never seen Samothes upset like this before, even when Samot railed at him. Samot feels too big for his skin, untethered. He wants to run as a wolf but Samothes would be alone, then. He walks over to him and puts a hand on his shoulder.

Samothes takes a deep breath and wipes at his eyes. He sits back in the chair and breathes, slow. Samot keeps his hand in place, and eventually Samothes covers it with his own.

“I’m okay,” Samothes says. “Thank you, Samot.”

“What are we going to do?” Samot asks, almost bouncing on his heels. He’s itching. It’s a force of will to not shift into a wolf right there in the dining room.

“What?”

“I’m not letting him die,” Samot says, impatient. “What are we going to do?”

“He doesn’t want help,” Samothes says.

Samot stares at Samothes.

“He’s dying.”

Samothes looks back.

“Samothes, our father is dying.”

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

Samot stares at him, longer.

“I need to leave right away, start researching,” Samot says. “There’s a way to fix this. I know there is.”

“You’re leaving?” Samothes says, face torn open.

“I need more books.” He searches Samothes’s face. “We knew this was temporary.”

“We just learned-and you’re leaving?”

“We don’t have to time to sit here pretending to be happy while our father is dying,” Samot says.

“I've been happy here,” Samothes says, eyes searching Samot’s. “Haven't you?”

“No,” Samot lies. He steps forwards. “You would let our father die to keep this farce afloat?”

Samothes takes this like a blow to the chest.

“He doesn't want us to do anything more than spend time with him,” he says. “I.” A pause. “I don't know what to do,” Samothes says, voice raw.

“You could do anything more than sit here and it would be better,” Samot says, lip curling.

“Fine,” Samothes says, slamming a hand down on the table. “I won’t bother you with my presence while you get all of us killed.”

He storms out the door, and Samot feels a peculiar mix of triumph and guilt. The look on Samothes’s face had been more hurt than he expected.

Samot putters around the house, already planning what he’ll say when Samothes returns. Samot has learned the value of an apology.

 

And then it grows dark and Samothes has not come home, and Samot begins to wonder. He could have left for good, but any city was at least a day's’ walk, and Samothes genuinely likes the house. Samot hadn’t expected him to be gone this long.

There’s a sense of niggling worry, an animal instinct Samot does not feel inclined to ignore. He shifts into a wolf and pads into the night to look.

He makes it miles from the house before he catches Samothes’s scent, and he follows it, nose to the ground. Then he smells blood, and the hairs on the back of Samot’s neck raise. He starts moving faster.

Samothes is bleeding, a long trail of scarlet in the snow. It’s too easy to follow, and Samot is a wolf, and Samot is enraged-something dared to touch what was _his._ In the night, the only scent in the air blood, all Samot can think is _mine mine mine_.

He finally sees him, backed up against a tree. There’s a bear, swiping at him lazily. Toying with its prey.

Samot sees red.

He circles until he’s behind the bear. Then Samot snarls and leaps forward, jumping on the bear’s back. It screams and flails; Samot is thrown against a tree.

Samothes begins limping away. Samot jumps again and latches onto the bear's throat, shakes his head. He feels the tough flesh tearing. Claws swipe at his back and he lets go, backing up in front of Samothes. The bear sways but continues forward and Samot bark-growls a warning. He's bleeding too, now, from the wounds on his back. Still. Samothes is barely able to stand.

Samot leaps at the bear’s throat a final time, ripping through to the bone. It scrapes at Samot’s back again, over the gashes already there, and Samot yowls. It falls and Samot falls with it. The bear struggles to stand as Samot scrambles away and fails, thrashing on the forest floor.

Samothes stares, wide eyed, as Samot becomes a man and staggers over to him.

“You're hurt worse than I,” he says, and starts pulling Samothes up. “Come here.”

“You're a wolf,” he says.

“Haven't you heard the tales?” Samot manages a grin, sharp.

“Of course, but.”

Samothes sways and Samot hooks his arm around him more firmly.

“Hush. Let's go home.”

 

They stumble in the door together and rest a moment, leaning on the door frame. Then Samot steers Samothes to the bedroom, sits him down. He puts hands on his wounds and they start to close. He leaves them covered in shiny, new skin, too exhausted to finish the job.

“Here,” Samothes says, and he pulls Samot down, turns him around so Samothes can see his back.

“Can I take off your shirt?”

Samot’s mouth is dry.

“Whatever you need.”

Samothes starts to lift it over Samot’s head and Samot winces. Samothes pauses.

“I’m going to rip it.”

“Fine,” Samot says, and then Samothes rips his shirt in half with his bare hands. He slides Samot’s arms out of the armholes and then puts hands on his shoulders, above the wounds.

“This is bad,” Samothes says, soft.

“You would have died,” Samot says, and winces. He turns his head just enough to see Samothes out of the corner of his eye. “You need to rest.”

Samothes lays his hands on Samot’s wounds and Samot gasps. Then they’re warm and the skin itches and tightens as it stitches together.

Samothes’s head comes down to Samot’s shoulder and for a moment, Samot wonders why. Then he realizes he’s about to pass out, even as he continues to heal Samot’s wounds. Samot jerks away, not enough to knock Samothes off his shoulder.

“Stop,” he says, and Samothes lowers his hands, leaning heavy on Samot.

He reaches a hand behind himself and holds onto Samothes’s arm, then slowly turns around.

“You need rest,” Samot says, and lays him down. Samothes goes, too weak to do much more than protest.

“You too,” he manages, and pulls Samot further into the bed. Samot lies down with him, suddenly exhausted.

Samothes is warm and solid and there, and in a sudden rush of relief Samot realizes how worried he was. Samothes is here. He will be okay.

“Samothes,” Samot says, and when Samothes turns to look at him Samot kisses him, once.

Samothes kisses back, dazed, and stares when Samot pulls away.

“Go to sleep,” Samot says, and lays his head on Samothes's chest.

Samothes brings his arm up around Samot, slow.

“Yes,” he says, after a beat, and closes his eyes.

 

Samot wakes slowly. Samothes usually rises with the sun, but today he is still asleep. He looks pale. Samot stretches, feeling the healing wounds on his back, then rises and goes to fetch water.

He returns and shakes Samothes awake.

Samothes stirs, slowly.

“You lost a lot of blood. Drink,” Samot says, and pushes the glass to Samothes’s lips.

He drinks obediently and blinks up at Samot. Samot’s heart twists with a sudden rush of affection and he leans in to kiss Samothes’s forehead.

“Go back to sleep.”

Samothes swallows.

“Will you-will you stay?”

Samot laughs, despite himself.

“I don’t think a bear will get you in here,” he says. Samot touches Samothes’s wrist, runs his thumb over it. “I’ll stay. Let me get my papers.”

He goes and retrieves his books. By the time he gets back, Samothes is almost asleep. Samot slips into bed. When he looks over again, Samothes is sleeping.

 

Samothes wakes up again a few hours later. Samot doesn’t notice right away, absorbed in a book. When he glances over, Samothes is watching him, smiling.

Samot takes a moment and ignores the way his cheeks heat.

“Are you feeling better?”

“A bit. Thank you,” he says.

“For what?”

“For coming,” Samothes says. His gaze is fixed on Samot. “I thought I was going to die.”

Samot remembers the rush of possession he felt, and he stares at Samothes, half lidded. Then he blinks.

“My point still stands.”

“What good am I if I let my people wither and die? They need me.”

“Our father-”

“Our father doesn't want help.”

Samot is quiet a moment.

“I can't let him return to that.” Samot thinks of his dreams of the Nothing, puts a hand on Samothes’s wrist to steady himself.

Samothes sighs. “I know.”

He puts a hand to Samot's cheek.

“Let me care for our people.” Our people, Samot thinks, and it does not sound strange. “You have changed the cities and the laws for the better, let me carry on what you have done. Let me care for you. And you can spend all the time you like looking for answers, as long as you don't hurt him.”

Samothes starts to pull his hand away, but Samot leans into it.

“I am not a fool,” Samot says. “Do not treat me as if I'll kill our father myself.”

“You're not a fool,” Samothes says. “But you're dangerous. You're curious. I worry.”

“And you wish me to remain here, locked in this house?”

“The year is almost up,” Samothes says, and Samot realizes it’s true with a start. “I do not wish to keep you here against your will.” He runs his thumb along Samot’s cheekbone.

“But I wish to keep you,” Samothes says.

Samot turns his head and kisses Samothes's palm. Samothes shudders.

“No man shall ever keep me,” Samot says. “But I will be yours, as you are mine.”

Samothes swallows. “You will. I will,” and Samot rushes forward to kiss him. Samothes tastes like metal and salt, the best parts of the tang of blood.

“Husband,” Samot says, wondering.

Samothes’s breath catches. Samot pulls him closer with the hand on his cheek, works his mouth open until Samothes is sighing, melting into him like iron in his forge.

His hands thread through Samot’s hair, tug. Samot growls and pushes Samothes onto his back on the bed.

“You're mine,” Samot says. “My husband.”

“Husband,” Samothes chokes, as Samot nips at his neck. He runs his hands carefully over the raw skin on Samothes’s chest, healing in little bits as he goes. Samothes inhales in tiny gasps.

Samothes isn't wearing a shirt, just loose pants, and Samot helps him lift his hips to wiggle them off. Then Samothes is naked in their bed, and Samot growls, kisses his chest.

“Oil,” he says.

Samothes fumbles in a drawer in the table next to the bed and Samot grins.

“How long have you been thinking about this, husband?”

“Long enough,” Samothes says, gasping.

Samot spreads the oil on his fingers and starts working himself open. First one finger, then two, scissoring. Samothes watches, flushed red. He runs his knuckles up Samot’s stomach.

Finally Samot fills himself with three fingers, gasping. It's not enough.

He runs a hand over Samothes’s cock, oils it. Samothes bucks and shakes.

“Easy,” Samot says, and then lines himself up.

He sinks down onto Samothes slowly. Samothes whines, breathing heavily.

Samot takes a moment to adjust. He looks at Samothes under him and is seized with sudden want. He leans forward to kiss him, dirty, then draws back and starts moving, slow at first.

Samothes shudders, hands on Samot’s hips. Samot rolls his hips, slow.

“Samot,” Samothes moans. Samot smiles and slows down.

“ _Husband,_ ” Samothes gasps, and Samot picks up the pace, moving faster and faster.

Samothes feels good under him, in him, and Samot is warm. Samothes gasps under him, close, and Samot gasps, too, at the open, wrecked way he's looking at Samot.

“I have you,” Samothes says, and Samot throws his head back, throat bared, impaling himself on Samothes’s cock. He sinks down once, twice, three more times and then Samothes touches his dick and Samot comes a whine. Samothes swallows and picks up his pace, fucking up into Samot faster until he comes, warmth filling Samot.

Samot kisses his neck as he recovers and then Samothes slips out of him, rests Samot against his chest.

Samothes nuzzles at Samot’s cheek, kisses him, lazy, slow. Samot arches into Samothes and curls their legs together. He pulls back from the kiss to look at him.

Samothes looks at him as if he were the sun itself. Samot doesn't know how he didn't notice before.

“My husband,” Samothes says.

“Yes,” Samot says, and turns to him, as if a flower to the light.


End file.
